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BAREFOOT DAYS 

AND 

SUNDOWN SONGS 

BY RAYMOND HUSE 




Class JESl2lSI5 
Book_?LJLlMiB~5 



CQE^IGHT DEPOSIT. 




Barefoot Days 



BAREFOOT DAYS 

AND 

SUNDOWN SONGS 



BY RAYMOND HUSE 

Illustrated 

with Photographs 

by W. R. Spinney 



Concord, N. H. 
1922 






Copyright, 1922, by Raymond Huse 



OCT 1 3 i'J22 



THE RTJMFORD PRESS 
CONCORD 



C1A686270 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Sunset Is the Time for Song i 

The Love He Has for Me 2 

Barefoot Days 3 

Take Me Back to Old New Hampshire 5 

The Great Stone Face 9 

His Little Brother on the Hillside 10 

The Song of the Harper 12 

When a Youth First Takes to Rhyming 15 

"If My Uncle Sammy Calls Me'' 17 

Just a Cottage by the Roadside 19 

The Spirit of the Old Home in War Time 20 

Sunset at Vincent Rock 23 

"Old Hedding" 25 

A Sunday School Rally Day Rhyme 26 

The Drunkard's Dreary Home 29 

Behind the Scenes 31 

The Fighting Bishop 34 

The Harpers I Hear at Sunset 35 

"I Want My Father" 40 

Confessions of a Wayside Wanderer 44 

O God of Quiet Woodlands 47 

The Folks Who Stay at Home 48 

Gossip from Birdland 54 

How God Can Make the Goldenrod 56 

The Music of the Cowbells 58 

Trees as Men . 62 

Tasting Books 63 

To Gene Stratton Porter 64 

The Wartime Poets 65 

My Creed 67 

V 



Page 

Democracy 68 

Revelation 69 

* There Is No Hell" 70 

Tomorrow 72 

His Deity 73 

A Toast 75 

A Love Poem 76 

"Where Is Your Home" 77 
"We Will Walk the Golden Streets Together" 79 

To My Critic 80 

"The End Is Not Yet" 81 

When We All Get Home at Night 83 



vx 



TO 
M. H. H. 

WHOSE LIFE IS A POEM 



SUNSET IS THE TIME FOR SONG 

WHEN the sun has passed the hilltops, 
And the solemn shadows creep 
Slowly down the purple mountain, 
Then from out the mystic deep 
Of the ocean of the twilight 
Notes of music float along. 
Daylight is the time for action, 
Sunset is the time for song. 



THE LOVE HE HAS FOR ME 

n^OWARD the heavens, the grand old mountains 

-■- Lift their summits, white with snow. 
'Neath their shadows, grand, majestic. 
Small seem all things here below. 
Higher than the highest mountain, 
Deeper than the deepest sea. 
Purer than the purest fountain 
Is the love He has for me. 

Mighty billows of the ocean 
Toss their spray upon the shore, 
And the silent depths beneath them 
Rest serene forevermore. 
Higher than the highest mountain. 
Deeper than the deepest sea. 
Purer than the purest fountain 
Is the love He has for me. 

In the dark and shaded woodland, 
Only found by those who look. 
Softly sings the crystal fountain. 
Mother of the laughing brook. 
Higher than the highest mountain, 
Deeper than the deepest sea. 
Purer than the purest fountain 
Is the love He has for me. 



BAREFOOT DAYS 

SOME sing of golden days of old, 
Some dream of days to be ; 
Of all the days the poets praise 
The barefoot days for me ! 

When bashful May has slipped away 
And June comes in with blaze, 
The country boy now hails with joy 
The dawn of barefoot days. 

His well worn shoes his feet refuse, 
Like some outgrown cocoon. 
They seem to swell and burst their shell. 
These early days of June. 

To feel with mirth soft touch of earth 
With feet unshod and free, 
To just forget the brook is wet 
And tumble in to see. 

The only bother is your mother. 
So careful of the sheet 
That every night, to keep it white, 
You have to wash your feet. 

To her fond hope in cleansing soap 
Tho' grumbling you must yield, 
Tho' half the day you've been at play 
In brooks out in the field. 



Nor has she thought how clean each spot 
Of soil on your bare feet, 
No graft or grime or sinful slime, 
Just nature's stains so sweet. 

The green of grass where soft winds pass. 
White dust of country roads. 
The splash of rain, wild strawberry stain, 
Cold kiss of hoppy toads. 

Such stains of play you wash away 
These summer nights so sweet. 
He that is clean, the Master said, 
Need only wash his feet. 

In scenes of heaven, by artists given. 
Upon the golden street. 
The blessed folk all seem to walk 
With happy free bare feet! 

It may be then, I'll find again 

In that fair land of praise 

Where fields are green, and roads are clean. 

My long lost barefoot days. 



TAKE ME BACK TO OLD NEW 
HAMPSHIRE 

TAKE me back to old New Hampshire, 
Where the hills are clad in green! 
Take me back to old New Hampshire, 
Where each peaceful boyhood scene 
Seems to beckon and to call me 

From the busy city mart, 
To the homestead on the hillside 
That is precious to my heart. 

When a barefoot boy I wandered 

In the pasture woods at night, 
Listening for the cowbelPs jingle. 

Watching as the fading light 
Of the afterglow of sunset 

Filtered through the wood's deep shade, 
Where the timid hermit thrushes 

Sang their flute song unafraid ; 
Then my child- soul felt the nearness 

Of the land where angels are. 
And I thought the Christian's heaven 

Just beyond the evening star. 



Now I know I was mistaken, 

It has come to me of late, 
When I heard the thrush at twilight, 

I was then inside the gate. 
For the walls that shut out heaven 

Are not made by fixed decree. 
It is in our souls we build them 

When we are no longer free ; 
When our feet, no longer naked. 

Cease to feel the cool, green moss, 
And our souls, as tough as leather. 

Miss the heart-throb of the cross. 
And we join the mad procession, 

With its glitter and its rush, 
That prefers the hurdy-gurdy 

To the vesper of the thrush! 

Take me back to old New Hampshire, 

Where the hills are clad in green! 
Take me back to old New Hampshire, 

Where each peaceful boyhood scene 
Seems to beckon and to call me 

From the busy city mart. 
To the homestead on the hillside 

That is precious to my heart. 



When, with shining dinner bucket 

And a book or two for show, 
I started for the schoolhouse 

Those Septembers long ago. 
O'er the road by corn fields bordered, 

'Neath the sky, cloud swept and clean. 
While the distant pine-crowned mountains, 

In the background clearly seen. 
Seemed to lure one to the highlands 

To prepare a laddie's thought 
For the wonder of the world lore 

By the patient teacher taught. 

O the dreams that like the sunlight 

On the schoolroom's knotty floor 
Made us oft forget the text-books 

While, wide-eyed, we looked before 
To the wondrous purple future, 

Till we heard the teacher say 
We must turn to common fractions 

Or perhaps we'd have to stay 
After school in lone confinement. 



She did not know, that faithful teacher, 

In her horror of a dunce, 
Life is full of common fractions. 

But the dreamtizne comes but once. 
Once, unless we carry with us. 

Flashing in the sunlight's gleams. 
From the schoolhouse by the roadside, 

Life's full dinner-pail of dreams 
Down the roadway to the future. 

Take me back to old New Hampshire, 

Where the hills are clad in green! 
Take me back to old New Hampshire, 

Where each peaceful boyhood scene 
Seems to beckon and to call me 

From the busy city mart. 
To the homestead on the hillside 

That is precious to my heart. 



8 



THE GREAT STONE FACE 

SILENT sentinel of the hills, 
With reverent awe my spirit thrills, 
Beholding thee ! 

The words of wonder I would say 
Are hushed to silence while I pray 
To Him whose own creative thought 
From massive rock thy profile wrought. 



HIS LITTLE BROTHER ON THE 
HILLSIDE 

T>ESIDE a country roadway, 
-^ By tourist's eye unseen, 
With God's own sky above it. 
Around it pastures green, 
My thoughtful rural neighbor 
Discovered near his * 'place," 
Upon some mossy ledges. 
The profile of a face. 

The heavy brow is thoughtful. 
Just like the famous other. 
He seems to us who know him 
The *'old man's" little brother. 
His face is not so solemn. 
Rebuking human sin. 
His lips in storm and sunshine 
Are parted in a grin. 
He doesn't guard the mountains, 
With their vast stretch of miles. 
But just a patch of pasture ; 
So that is why he smiles. 



10 





"The Old Man's Little Brother" 
Located on Branch Hill, Milton, N. H. 



^ 



I cannot be a prophet 
And speak to coming ages, 
With face like old Elijah 
So dark on history's pages. 
I've just a patch of pasture, 
With God's own sky above it; 
That's why I am so happy; 
I smile because I love it. 

One face so marred in feature 

The ages ne'er forget, 

Across the solemn centuries 

Is looking at us yet. 

Christ saw from Calvary's mountain 

Vast vales of human woe. 

He brought to us redemption 

Because He loved us so! 

I cannot bear his burden. 
His cup I cannot drink; 
His vision from the mountain 
Is not for me, I think. 
In my small patch of pasture 
I keep my simple tryst. 
Rejoicing that He calls me 
A brother of the Christ. 



II 



THE SONG OF THE HARPER 

In the twilight's dusky gloaming, 
In the evening's quiet calm, 
Stood an aged harper, hoary, 
Softly chanting David's psalm. 
Sweet, the music, sweet and lowly, 
Pure, distinctly came each word. 
He was praying, he was singing. 
He was praising David's Lord. 

As we gathered close around him. 
As we listened still and long 
To each note of holy music. 
To each burst of sacred song ; 
Then he paused in his devotion. 
Then did cease his hymn of praise, 
And he sang so low and softly 
This old lay of ancient days : 

THE SONG 

Easter lilies white were blooming. 
Making glad each hearth and home ; 
Easter bells were loudly ringing 
From the holy church at Rome. 

Far away within the forest, 
Far from dwelling place of men. 
Where the birds make sweetest music, 
Where the lion builds his den, 



12 



stood a little woodland chapel, 
With its belfry and its cross, 
And its old and sacred altar. 
Covered o'er with woodsy moss. 

Ne'er had man stepped in its portals 
Since the ancient days of yore. 
When the silvery haired old hermit 
Watched the people from his door. 

And on each successive Sabbath 
Rang the bell so loud and clear, 
That the people came to worship 
From the country far and near. 

Now the chapel was deserted. 
E'en at this glad Easter time, 
And the little bell hung silent. 
Though it longed to join the chime. 

Soon a change came o'er the landscape, 
Recently so bright and clear, 
And the storm clouds roared and rumbled. 
And the winds blew bleak and drear. 



13 



Easter lilies white were broken, 
Making sad each hearth and home ; 
Easter bells were harshly clanging, 
No more peace in stately Rome. 

Now the storm had reached the forest; 
Beasts all shivered in the wood ; 
Trees to ground were falling, crashing, 
Firm the little chapel stood. 

Mid the tempest's roar and rumble 
Could be heard a sound so clear 
That it echoed through the forest, 
O'er the country far and near. 

For the storm winds loudly blowing 
Swayed the bell now to and fro. 
And the tempest broke its bondage. 
And it rang as long ago. 

It was heard above the storm winds, 
Calming creature's fear and dread. 
Ever ringing, ever singing, 
**Christ has risen from the dead." 



14 



WHEN A YOUTH FIRST TAKES TO 
RHYMING 

WHEN a youth first takes to rhyming 
He will sing of broken hearts, 
And the ashes of dead roses, 
And the pathos of lost arts. 
He will write of mournful moonlight ; 
He will revel in dark fears. 
As the sophomoric preacher 
Likes the compliment of tears. 

But when life has beat against him 

With its tempest and its storm, 

When he has to gather driftwood 

His own hearthstone to keep warm, 

When his own roses, not another's, 

Have been smitten by life's frost. 

When the way to be successful 

Is the art that he has lost ; 

Then the law of compensation. 

Given for all evils here, 

Makes him search through earth and heaven 

For the message of good cheer. 



15 



Sorrow ceases to be lovely 
When real trouble on him crowds, 
And he learns the art of weaving 
Silver lining for his clouds. 
So the young poets sit aweeping, 
Just apart from scenes of mirth, 
And the old ones brim with laughter. 
Helping God cheer up his earth. 



i6 



"IF MY UNCLE SAMMY CALLS ME''* 
The Song of the Drafted Man, 19 17 

I LIVE in good old Boston, 
I have business, home and friends, 
But when the flag of freedom 
To me its summons sends, 
I'll not invent a reason 
Why I should answer, **No." 
If my Uncle Sammy calls me 
I will go. 

I've a mother and a sweetheart 
Who watched the draft with fears, 
But when I was selected 
They smiled behind their tears. 
They said, *'01d Glory calls you. 
You will not answer *No,' 
If your Uncle Sammy wants you 
You must go." 



* The first man to receive notice in Boston that he was selected 
by the draft, a musician, said : "If my Uncle Sammy calls me I will 



go." 



17 



So I laid aside my banjo 
And the peaceful ways of home, 
With pride I donned the khaki 
The great wide world to roam. 
And if I fall in battle, 
I want the world to know, 
If my Uncle Sammy calls me 
I will go. 

Oh, the iron cross is rusty 
And the iron crown is old. 
The kings and tyrants tremble 
And the kaiser's feet are cold; 
The stars and stripes are coming, 
And defeat they never know, 
And my Uncle Sammy calls me 
And I go. 



i8 



JUST A COTTAGE BY THE ROADSIDE 

(1918) 

JUST a cottage by the roadside 
Battered by the storms of time, 
Just a window in that cottage 
Where the morning-glories climb 
Over panes that loosely rattle, 
Frames that warp and bend and sag. 
But behind the dew-kissed blossoms 
Can be seen a service flag. 

And that little wayside cottage. 
Glorified by that lone star, 
Like a lighthouse by the ocean 
Sends its beams of light afar ; 
In the storm the good ship. Freedom, 
Where the v/ild waves fiercely chafe 
On the ragged rocks of danger. 
Sees that light — and she is safe ! 



19 



THE SPIRIT OF THE OLD HOME IN 
WAR TIME 

(1918) 

HE drives the cows himself tonight 
O'er pastures brown and green, 
'Neath sunset skies aglow with light 
While night hawks fly between. 
The boy who used to drive them down 
And sometimes make them prance, 
Now in a suit of olive brown 
Is driving foes from France. 

His father who, to tell the truth. 

Is older than he vows. 

Is camouflaging long lost youth 

And driving home the cows. 

It seems to him but yesterday 

A little barefoot boy. 

With garments tattered from his play 

And face aglow with joy. 

Was walking, talking by his side 

So many tales to tell 

He had to hush him, while he tried 

To hear the distant bell. 



20 



He sees again his sudden fright 
At whirr of partridge wings, 
Recalls again his grave delight 
With every bird that sings ; 
Remembers how when from the track 
He strayed upon a thistle 
He winked his childish tear-drops back 
And started up a whistle. 

And when at last he reached the gate, 

His pride and joy complete, 

To see his mother smiling wait 

Her grown-up son to greet. 

He boasted how he now could keep 

From her all lurking harms. 

But when that night he went to sleep 

He slept within her arms. 

Ah, those were days so safe and glad 

We scarce can think them true. 

Before the world had grown so sad, 

When summer skies were blue! 



21 



He drives the cows himself tonight 

But thanks his gracious God 

That should he fall in perilous fight 

And sleep ^neath foreign sod, 

The boy God gave him, clean and true 

As heroes famed in story. 

Had helped to carry the red, white and blue 

To victory and to glory! 

And though tonight he falls asleep 
On fields with carnage red. 
Where angel armies vigil keep 
Above the hero dead, 
I'm sure that he is just as safe 
As when by Mother's knee 
For God who made us love him so 
Must love him more than we ! 



22 



SUNSET AT VINCENT ROCK 

SUNSET at Vincent Rock, 
And God's voice speaks to me 
From trees that stand the tempest's shock, 
From winds that blow untamed and free. 
From silent shade where dripping ferns 

Now bend their graceful form in prayer. 
My heart once more its lesson learns 
And feels God's presence everywhere. 

Twilight beneath the pines, 

Hushed is the tumult of the day. 
The evening star in splendor shines 

To guide the traveler on his way — 
The way that leads up through the night 

To where the gates of life unfold 
And earth-blind eyes receive their sight, 

Beyond the sunset sea of gold. 

Before us lies the year. 

With many a load of care 
And many a cross to make us fear. 

We lift our hearts in prayer ; 
O thou, whose peace we feel this hour> 

We would not stray from Thee ; 
Go with us, let Thy keeping power 

Our constant bulwark be — 
Our bulwark and our song beside. 

For we would take from here 
A peace and gladness that abides 

Throughout the storm-swept year. 
23 



And when the twilight of our life 

Shall still our pilgrim feet 
And all its stress and all its strife 

And all the daytime and its heat 
Shall cool to silence and to night, 

As cools this summer day, 
O Rock, more sure than this one here, 

Be with us then, we pray. 
Light up the home-path with thy stars, 

Lest we should lose our way. 
Let down the sunset's crimson bars, 

And take us in to stay. 

(Vincent Rock is a huge boulder on the wooded hillside at 
Hedding, New Hampshire, at which sunset vesper services are 
held each summer.) 



24 



"OLD HEDDING'' 

GONE are the days when the fathers worshipped 
here, 
Gone are the saints to memory so dear, 
But we are the sons and daughters of the sires 
Come, Lord, and make our alters glow with old-time 
fires. 

Chorus — 
Old Hedding, Old Hedding, 

Salvation* s camping ground; 
Oh, let thy pines ring out once more. 

Thy joyful sound. 

Still human hearts are hungering for peace. 
For world-weary souls the struggle ne'er will cease, 

Till at the Master's feet we lay our burdens down. 
With old-time victories of faith our conflicts crown. 
Chorus — 

Soon, for us all, will end the battle shout. 
One by one, we are being mustered out. 
At home with the Lord, we will dwell forever more, 
And meets the saints of Hedding, now gone on 
before. 

Chorus — 



(This is sung to the tune of *'01d Black Joe" at Hedding 
Camp Meeting, Hedding, N. H., each summer.) 



25 



A SUNDAY SCHOOL RALLY DAY RHYME 

A YEAR ago, about this time, 
I answered to my name in rhyme, 
And so this season once again, 

I seized my rusty poet's pen. 
When suddenly to me did seem 

To come a vision or a dream. 
An angel came through gloomy night. 

And filled my little room with light. 
While in his hand he held a rule. 

*Tve come to measure," he said, **your school; 
For up in Heaven it must be known 

How much your school this year has grown." 

**A11 right," I said, **the church unlock 

And look at Brother Sanborn's clock.* 
'Tis written on its face with chalk 

And one has said that figures talk. 
Or better still just take a look 

At our secretary's book. 
'Tis figured there without distraction, 

Down to the smallest common fraction." 

* A clock that recorded the attendance. 



26 



The angel slowly shook his head, 

And in a gentle tone he said, 
**Up in Heaven it must be known 

How much each scholar here has grown." 
**0 yes," I said, **I think each scholar 

Is growing bigger and growing taller. 
There's Doris Hayes and Florence Knight, 

Growing to little women quite. 
And Myron Pickering, fast's he can. 

Is growing up to be a man. 
I think you'll find that each child here 

Has grown an inch or two this year. 

But once again he shook his head. 

And in a gentle voice he said. 
His radiant face toward mine now turned, 

**I mean how much has each one learned?" 
**0h, as to that, I can't quite tell. 

But some of us now know full well, 
Rehoboam, Jeroboam, Elijah, 

Ahab, Jezebel, Abijah, 
Elisha, Naaman, Ahaziah, 

Jehoida, Joash, Athaliah, 
And other lights of lesser fame 

We know by sign if not by name." 



27 



But once again he shook his head, 

And in a gentle voice he said, 
Now holding up his golden rule, 

**Is it for that you came to school, 
To learn of prophets, queens and kings. 

To learn of folks and dates and things? 
Up in heaven it must be known 

How much each scholar here has grown. 
In patience, love and Christian grace." 

**Ah, well," I said, *'if that's the case. 
You'll have to fold your wings and roam 

And spend a day in each one's home. 
This fact I'm sure you can learn there. 

As you cannot in house of prayer." 

**Amen!" he said, *'and so adieu.'* 

And saying that away he flew. 
And then so swiftly went away, 

And back to realms of endless day. 
Be sure you're kind and good and true. 

When he comes to spend the day with you. 

(Written for the roll call at Sanbomville, N. H., 1904.) 



28 



THE DRUNKARD'S DREARY HOME 

(Tune— My Old Kentucky Home. Written for the W.C.T.U.) 

THE sun shines dim on the drunkard's dreary home ; 
'Tis winter, the father's away. 
No fire in the hearth, no cheer in the room, 
Just a sob from the cradle all the day. 
The children cry both from hunger and from dread, 
The mother no comfort can give. 
Her heart is glad for the little one now dead 
While she mourns for others who still live. 

Chorus — 
Weep on, then, my sisters. 
Oh weep and work and pray 
Till you wash the stain 
From the flag with your tears 
And the drunkard's dreary home pass away. 

Once they were rich in affection and in joy, 
She waited his footsteps at night ; 
He came from work as happy as a boy 
To the fireside's welcome, warm and bright. 
The babe she held for his eager fond embrace ; 
But now when his footsteps she hears. 
She hastens to hide the children from his face. 
And her smile is sadder than her tears. 
Chorus — 



29 



Her sobs are heard by the women o^er the land, 

They're planning and praying today ; 

And now strong men as helpers with them stand 

And the grog shop's power must pass away. 

A few more years and the city will be dry, 

The State and the Nation besides ; 

The children then will cease their bitter cry 

And the mother's weary tears be dried. 

Chorus — 

Sing on, then my sisters. 

Oh sing and hope and pray, 
Till the flag we love is as pure as God above. 
And the drunkard's dreary home pass away. 

(This was written before the enactment of the eighteenth, 
amendment, but is inserted here ''lest we forget.") 



30 



BEHIND THE SCENES 

(Lines suggested by the death of Mrs. S. F. Upham.) 

BRAVE old Moses in the limelight, 
Battling for the truth and right, 
Had a mother in the shadows, 
Patient, faithful, out of sight. 
Pouring out her life to teach him 
How to be so strong and brave. 
Breathing in the soul that made him 
Lift the downtrod and the slave. 

Wendell Phillips, thank God for him 
And his brave, victorious strife! 
But the power that held and kept him 
Was his patient, shut-in wife. 
She whose happy eyes were proudest 
When he stood alone for truth, 
*Tell him not to shilly-shally," 
Said this lover of his youth. 



31 



White-plumed leader of the nation 
Hastens from his life of care 
To the bedside in Ohio, 
**Tell my mother I'll be there." 
Thus McKinley let his heart speak, 
And the listening nation knew 
That his mother's faith and ideals 
Helped to keep him clean and true. 

Gilbert Haven went to glory 
In a blaze of heavenly light, 
But the star that led him onward 
Through the darkness of the night 
Was the memory of Mary, 
Many years beneath the sod, 
Was the loyal love for Mary, 
Many years up there with God. 



32 



Samuel Upham, brave old hero 
Of New England's fighting stock, 
With convictions, firm established, 
Like his native Plymouth rock. 
Sending out the sons of thunder. 
With their hearts and brains aflame 
With the message of the gospel, 
And the power of Jesus' name ; 
But amid his greatest triumphs 
With affection he would glance 
For the lock of glad approval 
Of the mistress of the manse. 
She, the mother of the prophets. 
She, his household's quiet queen, 
In the shadows, patient, faithful. 
There with God, the great Unseen. 

When the Lord makes up his jewels 
In the morning soon to be, 
Not the brightest and the rarest 
Will be there whose names we see 
Blazened out in flaming letters 
Upon history's scroll of fame, 
But the quiet souls behind them. 
When the Lord and Angels name. 



33 



THE FIGHTING BISHOP* 

IN the thickest of the conflict, 
With the bullets singing past, 
There he stood, our fighting Bishop, 
Sounding out his bugle blast. 

If sometimes some hearts were weary 

Of his summons loud and shrill, 
All around the camp is lonely. 

Now his ringing notes are still. 

But for him the rest is blessed. 

For he loved the ways of peace. 
And his face was toward the sunrise 

Of the land where battles cease. 

And although we oft have heard him 

Sound the bugle, loud and sharp, 
Yet we think the word was welcome : 

"Change thy trumpet for a harp." 

* In memory of Bishop W. F. Mallalieu of the Methodist Episco- 
pal Chtirch. 



34 



THE HARPERS I HEAR AT SUNSET 

FAITHFUL John on Patmos Island, 
On the Sabbath day of old, 
Heard the bands of heavenly harpers 
Playing on their harps of gold. 

And sometimes, I've thought at sunset. 
When the western sky was calm, 
I could hear them softly playing 
On some resurrection psalm. 

When a boy I'm sure I heard them. 
As the evening shadows crept 
Down the purple mountain forests. 
And I laid me down and slept. 

And as years go by so swiftly. 
And life's shadows gather round, 
And life's sunset glows before me, 
Oft again I hear them sound. 

And my ear, unskilled in music. 
Knows not of their notes and sharps. 
But my heart, so hot and restless. 
Feels the message of their harps. 

I can see them, in my vision. 
Standing by the crystal sea 
Playing, as in mighty anthems. 
Everlasting harmony. 



35 



Not all gladness is their music, 
Like some songs we sing on earth, 
When we try to drown our heartache, 
In our merriment and mirth. 

There's a minor note of sadness 
In the anthem that they play. 
Like the sorrow of a mother 
When her child is far away. 

But far sweeter is the music 
With that note of sorrow there. 
And more healing to my spirit. 
With its fevered pain and care. 

And the notes of joy and gladness 
Swell out loud and sweet and clear. 
Like the birds returned in springtime 
With their songs of life and cheer. 

And I say, when life is restless 
With its problems and its care, 
*'Well, no matter how the earth is. 
It's all bright and clear up there." 



36 



** Where the harpers of the sunset 
Play their never ceasing song, 
Of the final, mighty triumph 
Over darkness, sin and wrong." 

Storms sweep over the horizon. 
Earthquakes, pestilence and flame 
Come to earth, and men go downward 
In defeat and sin and shame ; 

But the music never ceases 
Up there by the isles of balm, 
And the harpers, never weary. 
Play their resurrection psalm. 

Storm tossed, fretful, tired and weary. 
Sometimes now I face the west; 
Then I hear the harpers harping, 
Calm in everlasting rest. 

And my spirit soon is quiet, 
'Neath the burden and the rod; 
For I know the harpers ever 
Do behold the face of God. 



37 



And because of that, their music 
Never ceases, day and night; 
For up there by walls of jasper. 
They can see His throne is white! 

While I only tread the valley 
Rained upon by many tears, 
Darkened by the clouds of sorrow. 
Disappointment, loss and fears. 

And I cannot see the vision 
Of the Father's cloudless face. 
On the mountain they are singing; 
I am stumbling at its base. 

But some day, 1*11 see a harper 
Of that band now gone before us. 
Bringing me an invitation 
To come up and join the chorus! 

So with all my heart I listen 
While the shadows gather 'round. 
And the sunset gilds the hill tops 
For the harper's peaceful sound. 



38 



That not strange may seem the music 
When the pearly gates unfold, 
And I take my place among them, 
Up there by the streets of gold! 

Sing on, then, ye heavenly harpers. 
Standing in the heavenly place, 
Glad and calm because you ever 
Look upon the Father* s face. 

And the throne of God before you 
Shines above the isles of balm. 
Sing on harpers of the sunset, 
Sing your resurrection psalm! 

And my heart, so sad and weary 
From the age-long power of wrong. 
At the sunset time shall listen. 
Strive to learn your triumph song ; 

While the western sky is crimson, 
And the western hills are gold, 
And the harpers still are playing 
As they played in days of old! 



39 



"I WANT MY FATHER" 

WHEN school had closed in early summer, 
Vacation time arrived with glee ; 
My Grandma wrote her usual letter, 
*'Now send the boy to stay with me." 
My Grandma lived in the country, 
Her cottage home was quaint and gray, 
A great oak tree stood guard beside it, 
'Twas just the place for boys to play! 

I left behind the dusty city 

For God^s own country, clean and sweet. 

And kicking off my shoes and stockings, 

I wandered out with free, bare feet 

Through fields and woods of soft pine needles ; 

While ox-eyed daisies, khaki clad. 

Would gravely nod their cordial greeting. 

And smile upon the barefoot lad. 

I lived in comradeship fraternal 

With squirrels, birds and clouds and sky. 

Thoreau, the sweet-souled Concord pagan, 

Was not so much at home as I. 



40 



But when at last the week had ended, 
To fill my childish cup with joy, 
My father came to spend the Sabbath 
Out with his mother and his boy. 
For thirty years my sad-faced father 
Has been beyond the gates empearled. 
But if by God's own grace assisting 
I come at last to that fair world. 
If he will give me there one Sabbath 
Like those at Grandma's used to be, 
I'm sure, whatever else is lacking. 
That will be paradise for me. 

We lay upon the grass together, 

I showed him all my home-made toys, 

While Grandma hustled in the kitchen 

To get a dinner for her boys. 

And noon with hazy Sabbath stillness 

Was mantling field and dale and hill 

With sacred hush like that in heaven, 

When for half an hour 'twas still! 

But all glad days must have their twilight, 
And when the evening shadows fell. 
My father went back to the city ; 
And as he kissed me his farewell 
And climbed into a neighbor's wagon 
My world turned into ashes gray ; 
My boyish heart became so lonely. 
The "soul of summer slipped away.'* 



41 



I hear again the horse and wagon 
Receding through the evening gloom, 
I see again the lonely outlines 
Of my Grandma's lonely room. 
While without the mournful crickets 
Their evening vespers sadly kept, 
I fear it tells not half the story 
To say the homesick laddie wept. 
For one may weep in sobful silence 
That passes like the breath of noon. 
I howled out like a dog at midnight 
Baying at the mournful moon. 

My Grandma (bless her pious memory I) 

Would try some words of cheer to give, 

And mix them with an exhortation 

Upon the proper way to live. 

She told me I was acting foolish ; 

(And I have learned since that sad day 

That some folks think it quite religious 

To comfort mourning ones that way!) 

**Why, here's your cart and here your pla3rthings, 

And in the pasture 'cross the way. 

There are quarts of huckleberries. 

And you may pick them every day." 



42 



But, oh, the spot that ached within me 

Could not with things be satisfied, 

I wanted only my own father. 

For him alone my child-heart cried. 

And when a laddie wants his father 

As deep as any want can be. 

For all the berries in creation 

And all the playthings — what cares he? 

St. Augustine, the old theologian. 

Said in some lines that come to me : 

**0 God, *tis for thyself Thou madest us. 

And until we find in Thee, 

The Rest, we are forever restless." 

Our Father God, hear us we pray, 

And when the shadows fall at even, 

Still with us in lifers cottage stay. 

For all the charms of earth do mock us. 

Our pla3rthings fail to satisfy ; 

**I want my Father, my own Father." 

Our homesick hearts forever cry 



43 



CONFESSIONS OF A WAYSIDE 
WANDERER 

I ADMIRE the prosperous farmer 
And his well-tilled fruitful field, 
And the way he makes Old Nature 
Bounteous harvests for him yield. 

And in youth they tried to show me 
How to wield the rake and hoe, 
And to teach me agriculture 
Such as every man should know. 

But IVe long ago forgotten 
All the useful things they said, 
For the blood that flows within me 
Is the Indian kind instead. 

Much as I admire the cornfield 
And the garden truck and such, 
I confess September blossoms 
Please my vision just as much. 

Not the kind that grow in gardens. 
Standing stiffly in a row. 
But the wild things in the pasture. 
Growing where they want to grow. 

Watered by the dews each morning, 
Smiled upon by Father Sol, 
Close to Him whose gracious spirit 
Is the all within the all. 



44 




The Wayside Wanderer 



Goldenrod, the sweet wild aster, 
And closed gentian by the brook, 
Spattered like colored illustrations 
On kind Nature^s open book. 

These fine lawns within the city, 
Barbered by a sharp machine. 
Stiff and stately like a carpet, 
I like them because they^re green. 

I confess that I like better 
Tangled patches by the wall, 
Where no blundering human gardener 
Interferes with God at all. 

Where the blackberry vines run riot, 
Or some useless winsome weed. 
Like a humble rural rhymster. 
Blossoms, fades and goes to seed. 

Stately parks by benefactors 
All endowed and primly fixed, 
Where some careful landscape-gardener 
All the season's wealth has mixed, 



45 



And arranged in plans artistic, 

Have their place in life, I know, 

For where else could starched nurse maidens, 

And policemen have to go? 

But as for me, the woods primeval. 
With their reverent twilight hush. 
Where no fussy man with hatchet 
Has cleaned out the underbrush. 

And dry twigs crack beneath you 
As you make your way along, 
And the partridge drums defiant. 
And you hear the wild thrush song! 

So the farmers think I'm lazy 
As in fruitful fields they work. 
And the town-folk think I'm crazy. 
While in shaded spots I lurk. 

As they shake their heads efficient. 
Pitying my strange taste, meanwhile. 
Something in my soul keeps singing, 
I look up to God and smile. 



46 



O GOD OF QUIET WOODLANDS 

/^ GOD of quiet woodlands, 
^^ Apart from life's mad rush, 
Beneath whose shade forever 
Devotion's twilight hush 
Subdues the fevered spirit 
To restful trust and prayer! 
O God of quiet woodlands, 
Art Thou, too, everywhere? 

Upon a peaceful hillside. 
Around me solitude, 
'Tis easy, like old Moses, 
To say, *The Lord is good"; 
But down there in the valley 
Whose streets are hot with care, 

God of dark cool forests. 
Wilt Thou go with me there? 

1 much prefer to linger 
Where mountain breezes sweep 
O'er stretches vast and silent, 
Where pine trees vigil keep. 
But on the path that lures me 
Back to the noise and soil, 
Christ's footprints I discover, 
So I go back to toil! 

(Written for the close of vacation.) 



47 



THE FOLKS WHO STAY AT HOME 

(For Old Home Day, Concord, 192 1. Dedicated to H. H. M.) 

WHEN a man goes from New Hampshire 
To some Main Street in the West, 
And out there wins fame and fortune, 
Takes his place among the best ; 
Then his neighbors and acquaintance, 
Like to talk about his fame ; 

Orators on each Old Home Day 
Speak with glowing praise, his name. 
While I would not pluck a blossom 
From the wreath of those who roam, 
Yet I choose to sing the glory 
Of the folks who stay at home. 

There are farmers in New Hampshire 
Plowing on these rugged fields, 
Who, if they were on the prairies. 
Where Old Nature harvests yields 
Out of all direct proportion 
To the labor or the brains 
Of the folks who wield the sickle. 
And who count their greedy gains, 
Would be rich as fabled Croesus, 
But who now can scarcely hoard 
Cash enough to pay the upkeep. 
Of a modest little Ford. 



48 



From their homes upon the hillside 
They look down in calm content, 
Walk the paths in field and pasture 
Where their goodly fathers went ; 
Clean of mind, and strong of spirit, 
They don't care about life's frills, 
Just so they can see the sunset. 
Over old New Hampshire's hills. 

There are lawyers in New Hampshire, 
Just old-fashioned country Squires, 
Daily tramping on the notion 
That all legal lights are liars. 
Drawing wills and signing papers, 
Seeing what old Blackstone said. 
Who, if they had emigrated. 
Would be Congressmen instead ; 
But they live in their frame dwellings. 
Fronting on the village green, 
Full content, if from their windows 
On a clear day can be seen 
Washington, or some old mountain. 
Piled against the cloud-swept sky. 
Full content in old New Hampshire 
Quietly to live and die. 



49 



There are preachers in New Hampshire, 

Riding over rugged hills, 

Bronzed in summer by the sunshine, 

Sharpened by the winter chills. 

Telling out the old evangel 

To a little scattered few. 

Wearing clothes as old as Adam, 

Preaching sermons fresh and new. 

Who if they had followed early 

Horace Greeley's call *'Go West," 

Might be filling city pulpits. 

Bishoprics and all the rest. 

Now, their only compensation 

Is to tread their native sod. 

Living on their meditations. 

With their golden dreams — and God. 



50 



There are women in New Hampshire, 
Like wild roses in the dew, 
Giving all their wondrous sweetness 
To a faithful little few, 
Who, if they had been transplanted 
When the buds began to burst. 
In the world^s great flower contest. 
Would have taken prize the first. 
Now, instead, they wash the dishes. 
Run the Ladies' Aid and Church, 
Wield in many a rural schoolhouse 
Modern substitutes for birch. 
But they see each year the crimson 
Steal adown the mountain side. 
And they keep their sense of wonder. 
And their souls are satisfied. 

**Why then," asks the modern booster, 

With his table and his chart, 

**Did these people not get busy 

And go out and take their part 

In this world's broad field of battle 

In the bivouac of life. 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle. 

Be a hero in the strife? 

Why were they content to simply 

Live their dwarfed and stunted lives. 

And to never know the glory 

Of the pilgrim who arrives?" 



51 



Just because like some old elm tree, 
Lifting leafy hands to God, 
Undisturbed by stoim or axeman, 
They are rooted in the sod. 
There is something in our mountains. 
There is something in our streams. 
More potent than the wanderlust, 
More lovely than our dreams. 
And if they should start to journey 
Westward o'er the beaten track, 
That Old Man among the mountains 
Silently would woo them back ; 
He, the guardian of New Hampshire, 
Sober, wistful, full content. 
Made by God on that fresh morning 
When He made the firmament. 
As a kind of plan and pattern 
Of the men He had in mind, 
Men who would not need to wander 
True success and peace to find. 



52 



And perhaps on Life's great payday, 
With the books of God unsealed, 
We shall see that reapers' wages 
Are not reckoned by the field. 
And that they who gleaned the corners 
Share the Master's glad **Well done," 
Equally with those whose labors 
Won a place within the sun. 

Anyhow on this Old Home Day, 

Songs of praise I choose to give 

To New Hampshire's sons and daughters. 

Who to-day serenely live. 

Where the Merrimack's gentle waters 

Carry tidings to the tide. 

With the peaceful vales beside them 

And the mountains that abide. 

While I would not pluck a blossom 

From the wreath of those who roam. 

Yet I chose to sing the glory 

Of the folks who stay at home. 



53 



GOSSIP FROM BIRDLAND 

(To H. F. L.) 

THE blue jay is a handsome bird, 
He sports a suit of blue, 
He bosses all the other birds 
The whole wide woodland through ; 
He struts about and flaps his wings 
As though he were a king, 
But shows plebeian ancestry 
When he begins to sing. 
His harsh shrill notes as they sound out 
Just give his case away. 
And all who hear him soon perceive 
He's nothing but a jay! 

His friend, the owl, who lives near by. 

Is just as crude as he. 

But sits in solemn silence there 

Upon the old oak tree. 

He looks so wise as he peers out 

From eyes in daylight dim. 

That all the birds as they pass by 

Take off their hats to him. 

And every mother bird around 

Instructs her little fowl 

To learn his lessons and grow wise 

Like good old Father Owl. 



54 



The modest thrush is seldom seen 

Upon the public square, 

But in the shadows of his home 

He makes his music rare. 

The Thrushes all are cultured folk, 

But never make a show, 

Their dress though neat, is modest brown, 

And you would never know 

That they could buy out Mr. Jay; 

And quiet laughs of glee 

They can*t restrain when e*er they think, 

Of Father Owl's oak tree. 

So things with birds are much the same 

As 'neath the gilded dome. 

The Jays and Owls run politics, 

The Thrushes stay at home 

And criticize in silver tones 

Around their quiet dinners. 

In sight of Him who owns the woods, 

Who are the biggest sinners? 



55 



HOW GOD CAN MAKE THE 
GOLDENROD 

TTOW God can make the goldenrod 
A 1 Grow up from such a soil, 

When all our human gardeners 

Must plan and sweat and toil 

To make their gardens blossom 

And make their flowers grow, 

Is one of Nature's secrets 

That I should like to know. 

A bald and sandy barren field 
That hardly will grow weeds. 
Like that ground in the parable 
Where fell the wayside seeds! 
A tiny desert, just a patch 
Of stunted burnt up sod! 
God smiles on it with summertime 
And lo, the goldenrod! 



56 



A flower so fine and delicate, 

That anyone would think 

It came from richest garden soil, 

And had been wont to drink 

From spraying fountains all its days. 

Instead of passing showers. 

From its wild childhood it becomes 

Tlje prince of all the flowers. 

We study hard to understand 

The wondrous laws of God, 

And then he bafiies all our pride 

With fields of goldenrod. 

And Lincoln splitting rails, with fame 

Makes all the ages ring 

And He who came from Nazareth 

Makes all the angels sing. 



57 



THE MUSIC OF THE COWBELLS 

I*M not much at going to concerts 
Where you pay high for your seat, 
And pretend you are familiar 
With the musical elite ; 
Where the high-toned singers warble, 
Trying hard to beat the birds, 
While they keep you dumbly guessing 
At the meaning of their words. 

But one special kind of music 

Needs no words its song to tell, 

'Tis the tintinnabulation 

Of the sweet toned old cowbell. 

You may smile, then you haven't heard it 

Under circumstances right. 

Course there's no great music in it 
When it jangles through the night 
In some so-called celebration 
Or a midnight serenade 
Of a newly married couple. 
And it wasn't ever made 
For a substitute for sleighbells! 
That is going against all art. 
Like an elephant that is harnessed 
To a fairy pony cart. 



58 



But you take a summer Sabbath 

When you try God's day to keep 

In the good old rural fashion, 

And go out to salt your sheep, 

All around you is the stillness 

Of the summer afternoon. 

Then from out some woodsy valley 

There come floating pretty soon, 

Softened by the stretch of distance, 

Notes that somehow seem to suit 

Day and place, mood and occasion. 

Musical as any flute. 

Mixed with locusts' calls and crickets 

And the crows' attempt at song. 

If you don't think that real music 

With your ear there's something wrong. 



59 



Once, when in a distant city, 

I was walking, tired and sad, 

Down the street there drove the ragman. 

And he had what they all had. 

As a badge of his profession, 

Cowbells strung across the rear 

Of his rattlety old wagon ; 

Just as soon as he came near, 

My mind took a swift, far journey. 

Over miles of hill and plain. 

Over years of busy lifetime. 

To the good old pasture land 

Where, when summer suns were setting 

In the twilight's fading light. 

As a barefoot country school-boy, 

I drove home the cows at night. 

And ere stars had all been lighted 

In the summer skies so deep, 

In my plain unvarnished chamber 

I had fallen to care-free sleep. 



60 



So I tell you, that's great music 
That can make a man forget 
Where he is and what he's doing; 
I haven't found a concert yet 
That can do that quite so well 
As the tintinnabulation 
Of the sweet toned old cowbell. 

All this makes me sometimes wonder 
If what we call heavenly grace 
Won't be simply rearranging, 
Putting each thing in its place, 
And the humble and the ugly, 
All except the wilful wrong. 
Will look different when the Artist 
Or the Maker of the song 
Gets them in the right surroundings 
Where they have a chance to shine. 
Piles around the human cowbells 
Pasture hills and woods of pine. 



6i 



TREES AS MEN 

UPON a ragged pasture ledge 
I watched the wild, September rain; 
It fell upon the shivering woods, 

It splashed upon the lonesome lane. 
The friendly hills were shrowded all, 

A veil of mist upon each head ; 
I heard it whispered everywhere 
That gentle Summertime was dead. 

The stern gray pine before it stiffened. 

The gentle maple wept and swayed, 
The elm tree bowed in stately sorrow. 

As one of tempests unafraid. 
As one accustomed to the stress 

And ravage of the winter storm. 
But reached her graceful branches out 

To keep her frailer neighbors warm. 

The sturdy oak refused to tremble. 

But braced himself against the shock, 
And stretched his rugged roots far out 

And laid firm hold upon a rock. 
And as I came in from the storm 

I saw reversed once again 
The ancient wonder, and beheld 

The forest trees as walking men. 



62 



TASTING BOOKS 

"Some books are to be tasted." — Bacon. 

LONGFELLOW tastes like raspberry sherbet, 
Whose flavor is like a dream; 
And Whittier tastes like Indian pudding, 
With apples and golden cream; 
And Emerson* s flavor is like the olive, 
A taste that is acquired ; 
And Hawthorne has the wild grape tang, 
A thing to be desired ; 
And Lowell is wine for thirsty souls, 
The harmless kind that cheers. 
Thoreau has mixtures in his mug 
Of bitter-sweet root beers ; 
And Bryant is frozen pudding, 
That chills and makes you shiver. 
While Bayard Taylor brings you trout 
From many a crystal river. 
Gene Stratton Porter, bless her heart. 
Tastes like the berries of June, 
And while you taste them, all the birds 
Start up a merry tune. 
And Winston Churchill is a salad 
Made by some modern rule ; 
And Harold Wright is hunter's game 
Shot by a shaded pool ; 
While Joseph Lincoln, dripping salt, 
A dish no landsman knew. 
Reminds me of a quahaug soup 
Or steaming lobster stew. 



63 



TO GENE STRATTON PORTER 

DEAR **Laddie's" little sister, 
And friend of every child, 
And blessed advertizer 
Of **Music of the wild," 
To you, a rural rhymster 
Would like to send a word 
Of glad appreciation. 
I*m sure some passing bird 
Would take it, if he knew me 
As well as he knows you. 
And drop it at the * *Limberlost," 
Where folks are all *'true blue." 

As **bearer of the morning," 
And chaser of the dark. 
It would be very fitting 
For me to call you "lark"; 
But somehow when I listen 
To your mixed merry tune. 
You 'mind me of a catbird 
Who sings to God in June ! 
In your glad notes of music 
And your rich song of cheer 
The echoes of the woodland 
And singing swamp I hear. 
You make me leave my study 
And tramp out from the town^ 
And all my priggish idols 
You flop right upside down. 



64 



THE WARTIME POETS 

FOR barren years no prophet's hand 
Has struck the living lyre, 
The poets have been prosy folks 
With no celestial fire, 
Save where a Riley heard the notes 
That rise from common sod 
And through October woodlands walked 
With Nature and with God ; 
Or where a Kipling climbed alone 
A mountain crowned with flame, 
And drunk with glory, uttered words 
That won him deathless fame. 

Then came the fearful holocaust, 

Apparently from hell. 

And sleepy watchmen no more cried 

Through sleepy streets, **AlPs well!" 

But martyr blood flowed crimson red 

And crosses marked each hill. 

Then o'er the plains where soldiers fought 

There sounded notes long still. 



6s 



The wartime poets wrote lines of fire 

With ecstasy divine ; 

With them I would not dare to place 

These ragged rhymes of mine, 

But humbly place my tribute here 

To that new race of men 

Whose words will live for evermore, 

And bravely died with sword in hand 

And sung with dying breath 

Immortal songs that take from life 

Its prose and sweeten death. 

They do not know, in coming years, 

Our lips will kiss the sacred sod 

Where they fell singing; their fame secure, 

They play their golden harps to God. 



60 



MY CREED 

THE Fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man, 
The Saviorhood of Jesus Christ, 
My life a love-made plan. 
Such as fond mothers love to dream 
When baby's eyes they see! 
The realization of that plan 
Is largely up to me! 

The universe has known its night, 
Its clouds will pass away, 
I hear the bird-song and I see 
Red gleams of coming day. 



67 



DEMOCRACY 

"One is your master, even Christ and all ye are brethren." 

Matt. 23:10. 

DEMOCRACY is no new thing, 
Although its name is new; 
Christ taught its truth by Olivet 
When human rights were few. 
And if the world had spent more time 
In doing as He said, 

We'd have less of bishop and less of king. 
And more of man instead. 



68 



REVELATION 

GOD in the pine trees and white clad, gracefu 
birch, 
God in the birdsong, bobolink and thrush, 
God in the Scriptures, like life sap in the tree. 

And beneath the fever and the fretful rush 
God, eternal Spirit, liveth, too, in me ! 

God in the sunshine, healing storm-rent scars, 
God in the moonlight, stirring wistful dreams, 

God in the violets, springing from the sod, 

God, the guiding course for history^s turbulent 
streams, 

God in Christ, our Savior, eternal Son of God! 



69 



"THERE IS NO HELL" 

THERE is no hell! 
That God would doom to lasting flames 

A portion of mankind, 
Is but the nightmare of the race, 

The frightened dream of mortal mind. 
Man! Of God's own self, a part; 

And dear to him as children are 
To brooding, mother heart." 

So spake the modern preacher. 
And I who take to gentle truth and mild 

Had almost said, '*Amen!" 
It seemed to me so comforting, 



70 



And then — 
I looked around and saw the woe 

All caused by human sin, 
The everlasting Calvary, 

Beneath the world's wild din; 
And thought if I by word or deed 

Had helped to press hard down 
Upon the brow of Son of Man, 

The heavy, thorn-made crown. 
Although my feet tread golden streets, 

Where heavenly anthems swell. 
Within the halls of memory 

Is everlasting hell. 
And if sin be an opiate 

And make me cease to care. 
And lose the tender heart that sobs 

The penitential prayer. 
Ah, well! 

That would be, it seems to me, 
The very lowest hell! 



71 



TOMORROW 

THE far tomorrow, cold and dim, 
Will simply be to go with Him 
On through the evening's peaceful gloam, 
On to the Father's ** Welcome Home." 



72 



HIS DEITY 

(John 17.) 

"TT ry should I worship Jesus Christ, 

V V The Galilean seer?" 
I asked my friend the scientist, 

Whose mission keeps him near 
First causes. 

**Because," he said, "Within your Book 
It tells of how He reigned supreme 

0*er forces of whose mastery 
We scientists but dream 
And wonder.'* 

But just because He has the power, 

And with it too the skill 
To run this belted universe 

As Dives runs his mill 
For profit. 

Does not move me to worship Him. 

A democrat am I, 
And bow my head as reverently 

To him who passes by 
To labor, 

With overalls and jumper. 

And dinner pail in hand, 
Whose soul, unstained, erect. 

Meets every demand 
Of manhood. 

73 



**Why should I worship Jesus Christ, 

The Galilean seer?" 
I asked the white souled Christian, 

Who lingered ever near 
His presence. 

* 'Because Infinite Holiness, 

Wherever it is found. 
Makes all before its burning bush 

Tread softly holy ground 
And pray." 

"In God the Father, throned above. 

In God's eternal Son, 
Its uncreated glory shines. 

That makes them ONE, 
Forever." 

*'And we who feel its power 

Are moved to humbly pray 
And, more than that, as thoughtful men, 

Its inner call obey 
And imitate." 

*'That going up the shining way 

On toward the central sun. 
We, too, may then become a part 

Of that eternal ONE, 
Forever." 



74 



A TOAST 

UNLESS I put within this book 
Where wistful maidens glance, 
A song of younglings making love, 

The flavor of romance. 
The reading public will declare, 

* Though what he says is nice. 
His soul is like November nights 
With moonlight on the ice." 

But when a youth has loved a lass 

More dearly than his life, 
And when it simply came to pass 

That she became his wife. 
And still across the snowy cloth 

She smiles like heaven on him. 
The memory of the courtship days 

Becomes a little dim. 

He cannot somehow set to verse 

The thrill that came and went. 
Because he has within his heart 

A song of glad content. 
I lift my cup and drink my toast 

That brims v/ith joy and laughter, 
Not for days before I wed. 

But those that have come after. 



75 



A LOVE POEM 

DID you ever see a couple, 
Homely as some wrinkled fruit? 
Did you wonder how that couple 
Ever could each other suit? 

Did you ask yourself the question 
With a comprehension dim, 
**How could he think she was lovely?" 
**What could she behold in him?" 

Could you follow that same couple 
To the cottage by the way. 
Where he tramps him home at sunset, 
Where she waits at close of day. 

Could you stand unseen between them, 
And behold the inner light. 
Flashed soul deep from each to other 
Like a beacon in the night. 

You would understand the secret. 
Not that love is very blind. 
But that love is not near-sighted 
And can see beneath the rind. 



76 




"Her happy face made passing folks take one more 
hungry look" 



"WHERE IS YOUR HOME?* 

SHE came to make a little visit 
When she was three years old, 
Her eyes were like the summer sea, 
Her hair was fine spun gold. 
Her lips were like the strawberries 
Which grow beside the brook ; 
Her happy face made passing folks 
Take one more hungry look ; 
Her merry prattle filled my home 
Until there came the day 
When she must close her little visit 
And journey far away. 

I said to her, **My little lass, 

Will you go home today?" 

She dimpled with a bashful smile, 

**IVe got to go to play 

Out in the yard with my new doll. 

So I canH go, you know ; 

Perhaps some other morning bright. 

If you think best, PU go." 

My jealous heart gave one glad leap, 

I said within me, **Never! 

If you don't want to journey home, 

I'll keep you here forever." 



77 



But when I took her to the train 

On which her father came, 

And as he stood there by our side, 

And called her by her name, 

Her blue eyes misted o'er with tears, 

And she could hardly speak. 

She gave one leap to his strong arms 

And nestled by his cheek. 

To cover up my homesick heart 

I said, ** Where are you going?'* 

**I'm going home," she shouted back. 

And then, as if not knowing, 

* 'Where is your home?" I questioned her; 

She patted with her baby hand 

Her father's cheek with gentle grace, 

**Why home is where my papa is," 

She said and hid her face. 

O fairy teacher, by your lips 
Eternal truth is given. 
Philosophy of happy homes, 
Geography of Heaven! 



78 



"WE WILL WALK THE GOLDEN 
STREETS TOGETHER*' 

Dedicated to my Mother 

WE will walk the golden streets together, 
We will climb the beauteous hills, 
We will linger by the fountains 
And the gentle flowing rills. 
We will listen to the angel song 
And to their harps of gold. 
Oh, the glory and the rapture ! 
It can never here be told. 

We will journey through the city 
And the suburbs far and near. 
In the land that has no sorrow. 
In the land that has no fear. 
We will gather fadeless flowers 
From the fields of lasting green. 
Oh, the glory and the rapture! 
It can never here be seen. 

But amid the joy and gladness 
Of the blest "forevermore,'* 
While the sea that shines like crystal 
Tosses spray upon the shore. 
And the angels in their reverence 
Hush their harps and still their song. 
We shall see in all His glory 
The Christ we^ve loved so long. 



79 



TO MY CRITIC 

YOU need not tell me, critic dear, 
Because you see I know it, 
I have too much preacher blood 
To be your kind of poet! 
And to the truth you mention now 
I fear I shall not 'wake, 
That when one sings of common things, 
Then **art for art's own sake" 
Should be his guiding principle. 
And he should be content 
To please the eye and please the ear. 
For thus were poets meant. 

You see I cannot quite forget 
That when this wondrous world 
Was by Our Father's skillful hand 
Through starlit spaces whirled. 
He meant that by the things we see, 
If we but think and heed. 
Life's deeper secrets hidden there, 
Our hearts should learn to read. 
That life itself is one great poem 
Whose meaning we may find, 
If we approach its mystery 
With reverent heart and mind. 



80 



"THE END IS NOT YET" 

'^rOT yet the end, while human hate 
■^ ^ Still mocks the angel song of old, 
Although the hour in time is late, 

And signs by hoary seers foretold 
Long since have passed, like striking bells 

That mark the hours of star-watched night, 
Until with joy the morning swells 

And eastern skies all flame with light. 

Not yet the end, while human greed 

Still seeks with lustful eyes the soil 
Where patient peasants sowed the seed, 

And sanctified it with their toil. 
And gold is god and fame the crown 

That men pursue with quenchless thirst, 
And swiftly strike a brother down 

Lest he should gain its glitter first. 



8i 



Not yet the end, while human blood 

Bespatters marketplace and mead, 
And like a mighty, rushing flood, 

The hellish hounds of war are freed, 
Until the sun turns dark with shame, 

The silver moon flames fiery red. 
While weltering nations count their fame 

From heaps on heaps of foemen dead. 

Not yet the end, until the Child 

Who came to earth while beamed the star, 
Shall wield His scepter, meek and mild, 

And men shall see the things as they are. 
O heart of mine, be patient yet, 

The road winds on for many a mile, 
'Though men grow heedless and forget 

They'll think and weep, in afterwhile. 



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The dear home paths 



WHEN WE ALL GET HOME AT 
NIGHT 

WHEN in other lands we wander, 
And in distant paths we roam, 
How our hearts grow warm and tender, 
When at night we think of home. 

And the hills we loved in childhood 
Seem to call us from afar. 
As they did when o*er their summits 
We beheld the evening star. 

Our lives are but a journey 
'Round the circle, through the glen, 
And when shadows fall at even 
We shall all come home again. 

In the dear home paths we'll wander. 
And the years that took their flight 
In our joy will be forgotten, 
When we all come home at night. 

And the Father who has missed us, 
When so sadly we did roam, 
And the Saviour who has loved us 
Will receive us, ** Welcome home." 



83 



